Rivers of Blood Flow Freely From Beneath Her Fangs and Matte Her Fur
by jaredxkimx4ever
Summary: The War of the Five Kings began three years ago. Most of her family is dead, the other half lost. She's been caged in the Red Keep for years, waiting for rescue. Joffrey grows ever more cruel, and society ever more cold. But Sansa has a secret. Something that it seems the rest of Westeros has forgotten whilst beating down her and her family. The Starks ruled the North for a very lo
1. Chapter 1

Sansa's always wondered how the rest of the world keeps moving; whether she's the only person that's stuck in a thick pool of congealed blood. The only one who seems to be fighting not to drown when it all flooded into her life the moment King Robert stepped foot onto the soil of her home, Winterfell, all those years ago.

She used to think that there was no greater honor than to be noticed by the Iron Throne and its keepers. She thought the golden-haired Lannisters were enchanting, and the large, dark king was imposing but striking in the way that most fierce warriors are. When Prince Joffrey had first smiled at her after riding through the gates on his fine steed, she had been in awe. But then Arya did what she always did best: orneriness. She got into a spat with him and as a result the royal family became more distant to her own. Well, pardoning King Robert and his old friend, her father, Lord Stark. The king had come to ask for her father's support in the role of the King's Hand, a most prestigious position, and her father accepted.

On the day that they were to depart from Winterfell and make their journey south to the capital city of Westeros, King's Landing, Sansa turned on her horse at the main gate and gazed over the turrets and towers, the glass gardens in the distance and all the people waving the party off, and she felt… cold. Living in the North since sliding from her mother's womb gave her an edge on all the Southerners: she was used to it. Sansa no longer felt the cold any more than those from the South felt the heat. But on that day, for the first time in eleven years, Sansa Stark had felt the chill in her bones, and she knew, even then, what her father was always telling her was true.

Winter is coming.

And come it did; with a vengeance, destroying everything in its path, including almost the entirety of her family. The Seven Kingdoms were thrust into a war, not unlike Robert's Rebellion had in her father's youth, and everyone seemed to think they had a claim to the Iron Throne-the ancestral seat of Westeros' crown ruler for the last several centuries. Families turned on each other, life-long friendships were torn apart, and sometimes even entire armies turned on their leaders. It became a time of strife and discord, trust was a thing of the past, and mercy seemed never to have existed at all.

The only shining light in Sansa's life is that although she is trapped in a den of Lions- the Lannister House sigil- her sister, Arya, who had also accompanied their father to the capital, had escaped with an old comrade of her father's, Yoren. She saw it happen shortly after watching Lord Stark's body be cropped at the neck by order of the, oh so honorable _King_ Joffrey.

The King's Justice, Ilyn Payne, had swung the blade and as it arced through the air, the metal caught the sun and for a moment-just a second really- Sansa had seen her own face reflected back at her, wide eyes and pale skin against a splash of braided copper.

But then the moment was gone, and so was her father.

Sansa went numb, and her eyes roved the wild crowd instead of looking to her feet where her father's head had rolled onto the trail of her dress. That's when she noticed Arya being led away by the tall Night's Watch recruiter. She never saw her again after that.

It has been three years now since the war began. Sansa's nameday is a few moons off and soon she will be five and ten, almost a woman, by society's standards at least. She rather thinks she became a woman the day a raven came with news that her mother had her throat slit open and her body tossed into the river shortly followed by her eldest brother's decapitated head. She's heard awful things about what they did to his body, so she never thinks on it.

For three years she has cowered here in a fortress crawling with lions, and bided her time. She was too young, too naïve to be anything other than the perfect captive back then. But she has grown, she has suffered, and she will not let her back be broken under these lions. Sansa thinks it's about time to remind these people that she is a Stark. Their sigil is a fierce direwolf, and now more than ever it's time for everyone to get a rude awakening.

She has teeth too. It's about time she used them.

"Lady Sansa! How are you this evening?"

The Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister, always one for courtesies.

"I am well, thank you, Your Grace," Sansa forces a cordial tone.

Cersei's smile is brittle, "I was sorry to hear that you have declined, once again, to go with Lady Margaery to the seamstress that I procured for her."

Ah, King Joffrey's new paramour. After the war broke out, and Sansa's older brother Robb became the leader of the North's army-and eventually was proclaimed its King- Sansa was branded a traitor by blood, and tossed aside for the prettier, more graceful , Lady of Highgarden. Sansa pities her.

"Indeed. It was a most kind offer, Your Grace. But I do not have any need for new gowns, and I thought it reckless to spend the Crown's gold so frivolously."

Cersei smirks looking her well-worn but still wearable dress over, before nodding and walking very closely past Sansa, forcing her to move over a step so as not to collide with her.

"No need, indeed, Lady Sansa."

Sansa swallows and keeps her head down as the rest of Lady Lannister's entourage follows behind her. When they have gone, she resumes her leisurely pace towards the Godswood. As a child, Sansa was raised with a duality of faith. Her mother, Catelyn Tully, came from the Riverlands, and they practiced the Faith of the Seven. Seven faces of one entity: Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and Stranger.

Sansa has always identified with this faith more so than her father's, because when she was younger it seemed happier, more joyful and full of songs and tales. But as she has grown older, and become less sheltered to the ways of the world, Sansa finds herself more and more drawn to her father's faith. The Old Gods of the Forest is a religion that has roots all the way back to the First Kings of Winter. And theirs is a solemn and contemplative worship; the Godswood is a forest centered on a Weirwood tree, which has a face carved into it. This is where Ned Stark always went to pray: at the base of the Weirwood with eyes bleeding red sap. As a child, Sansa was frightened of the Godswood, and the face carved into the tree had never seemed to bring comfort to her as it did to her father.

As she spent more and more time here in King's Landing, Sansa draws far more comfort than she ever thought she would from the Godswood. It makes her feel closer to home, to her family, wherever they are. Today is actually a rare trip for her. Sansa usually tries to make weekly trips, but Joffrey is far from the kind boy she once thought he was, and one of his favorite punishments for his pet traitor is a regular beating from his Kingsguard. The beatings have almost always interfered with her ability to walk about unimpeded because of the bruises and sores. There was a rather particularly brutal lashing a few nights ago, and Sansa can barely walk at a normal pace without feeling the sting. She didn't want to skip the trip though, so here she is, hobbling along as ladylike as physically possible and attempting to remain inconspicuous. It would not do to draw unnecessary attention.

Sansa exhales deeply, her shoulders slumping when she passes far enough through the thicket at the opening to the Godswood to not be seen by anyone who isn't directly behind her. Walking further into the small woods, she comes upon a bench stationed directly in the center of the area. The Red Keep- the name of the castle at King's Landing- is very young compared to her own ancestral home, and does not have a Weirwood tree in its Godswood. It's not the same as Winterfell's, but the atmosphere is calming regardless.

Taking a seat, Sansa makes sure not to lean into the back of the chair; her cuts are far too fresh. For that reason she wore a dark colored dress in order to hide any potential bloodstains that leak out. Bowing her head and saying a quick prayer to the Old Gods, Sansa freezes when she hears a twig snapping.

Here in the South, the Seven are the predominant gods and thus, Sansa has never seen anyone enter the Godswood before. So whoever is here, most likely followed her.

"Is someone there?" Sansa lifts her head slowly, and turns to look behind her.

The leaves on the trees are swaying in the gentle wind that is brewing, but there is no one in sight behind her. She turns her head at an even pace, scanning the trees on her way to seat herself back in her original position.

"Are you frightened, Little Bird?"

A short shriek escapes her mouth, unbidden, when the voice comes from the opposite side of her. She whips her head over to see a very large, armored man standing beside her in front of the bench. He's not looking at her, but instead somewhere over her shoulder.

"Sandor," she smiles.

He looks at her then, a twinkle in his dark, grey eyes.

Sandor Clegane is a member of Joffrey's Kingsguard. He is well known for his penchant for violence, ale, and loose women. He's also the only person who has ever been kind to Sansa in her stay here, and been sincere about it. He's a gruff and unapproachable man, but he's also not what others paint him to be. A large part of their perception of him comes from his face. Sandor was scarred as a child by his brutish older brother, Gregor. He pressed his face into a brazier over a small argument and ever since Sandor's borne the scars on almost half his face.

Sansa wouldn't lie if asked: they aren't flattering, and she doesn't forget they're there. Rather, to her, they are a sign of his bravery, his strength to go on after enduring such a traumatic experience. Sansa can identify. Though, her scars are not as convenient for others to see, she still has them. And she feels a kinship between herself and Sandor. They're survivors.

"What are you doing out of your rooms, Little Bird?" His eyes are still warm, but his mouth twists into a grimace.

He's not pleased.

"I wanted to visit the Godswood. I'm fine, Sandor. If I didn't think I could handle it, I wouldn't have come."

He grumbles, but eventually his grimace disappears. Good, she prefers when he smiles. Sansa knows he doesn't though. The scars covering the right half of his face create a rather cringe-worthy patchwork when stretched into a smile so he tends not to; but it makes his eyes light up and crinkle at the corners, and his teeth are whiter and straighter than she has ever seen. It makes her warm inside.

"I've noticed that you have been declining all invitations. I would know, because if you went to any formal events, you know I am always the assigned guard to accompany you."

He phrased it as a statement, but I can hear the question in his tone. I deign not to answer it though. He can't know. Not just yet.

"Yes, I haven't been feeling very well, what with the punishments I have been receiving. As I'm sure you remember."

He was witness to most of them. Sansa doesn't blame him for not stepping in, it would cost his life. But she can thank him for never being the one to raise his hand against her. She is even more thankful that Joffrey has never asked him to; because that is something that she knows he would rather die than do.

Sandor cocks his head to the side and peers into her eyes intently. She tries with every ounce of training she has ever been given, not to let him see past her mask. Like before he doesn't seem fooled, but he must see something that helps him decide to let it go for now. He gives her a curt nod, and then bows slightly- traitor or not, her station as Winterfell's heiress earns her a certain modicum of respect (she has a feeling that's not why Sandor bows to her though).

"I've got to get back, Little Bird. I saw you walking, and decided to see how you were."

"I'm fine, Sandor. Thank You."

"You're not fine, you're hiding something. Just don't get caught, Little Bird. Be careful," he warns firmly.

Sansa just nod silently, and he seems satisfied by that.

"Make sure the whore cleans those cuts real good tonight; don't want them to get infected," he growls out, obviously uncomfortable with his earlier show of concern.

Shae, her handmaiden used to be a pleasure servant. Sandor's the one who first had suspicions when she talked back to him once, more bravely than anyone who draws baths for a living usually is. Well, that and he said she shows more skin than he'll ever see in a brothel. Sansa doesn't care what Shae did before, because now she's a dear friend and irreplaceable. Sandor's still sore that she tried to lie to him though; prideful man.

"Stop calling her that, you know she's not a pleasure servant anymore, Sandor," Sansa rolls her eyes.

"I didn't call her a _pleasure servant_ , Little Bird," his lips quirk.

He finds her propriety amusing.

"Don't be out too late. It's not safe after dark for ladies like you," he warns on his way past the bench to exit the woods.

Sansa follows him with her eyes until he disappears from sight.

"Yes, well. I'm not a lady."

Her lip curls, and she can feel the sharp points of her canines lengthening. Running her tongue over her fangs, Sansa feels a swell of anticipation building in her blood. Her eyes drift upwards to the rapidly darkening sky.

It's almost time.


	2. Chapter 2

Joffrey Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne the way one sits with a stick up his arse. He looks uncomfortable in the massive chair, and it's obvious to everyone around him that he doesn't belong in it either. Sansa is standing to the back of the throne room, trying to avoid being seen. Her presence had been requested by the King's mother, and so she had no choice but to attend today's meeting, but that doesn't mean she can't stay unobtrusive. Cersei nodded her head to Sansa from her own chair slightly behind the throne when she walked in so she knows that her attendance has been noted. It's been an hour since the King's presence was announced to the people crammed into the room waiting for him, and all he's done so far is talk over the peasants pleading for help, and laughed at the lords' requests.

Has he never heard the expression, "You'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar?" Everyone on the King's Small Council seems to disapprove of the way he is comporting himself, if the way they constantly whisper in his ear is to be indicative.

"Well, now that the commoners are dealt with," Joffrey's thin lips pull into a grimace, "Where are we in the war efforts, my lords?"

The crowd of high lords titters at the King's attention, and Sansa can tell they are all nervous to have his direct attention. A tall, reedy gentleman steps forward to command attention.

"Your Grace, it seems that after the Young Wolf was killed, House Bolton took control of Winterfell from the Iron born and rules as self-proclaimed Warden of the North."

"He cannot do that! The Heiress to House Winterfell still lives. It is Lady Sansa's birth right," a fat, bald man protests.

"Yes, Lord Varys, this is true. However, this is not news to me. I gave Winterfell to the Boltons myself, as a reward for their exceptional work at the Twins," Joffrey sneers.

Sansa clenches her hands into fists, furious. The betrayal her mother and brother suffered was an affront to the Gods not something to be applauded!

"What of the last remaining male Starks? Should they not inherit before their sister?" Master Pycelle- the royal maester- questions.

"Indeed, but my spies have informed me that Bran and Rickon Stark are both dead. The Iron born burned them when they initially took over Winterfell," Lord Varys rebuts.

Sansa gasps. How has she had no knowledge of this? Her heart thumps in her chest heavily, and the blood rushing in her ears masks all other sounds.

'Brave Bran, Little Rickon…No that cannot be. Theon would never hurt them. He grew up with them!' Sansa wails inside.

Theon Greyjoy was a prisoner to her father after the Iron born Rebellion many years ago. In order to ensure another would not occur, Lord Balon Greyjoy-ruler of the Iron Islands- gave his last living son to the North as a bargaining piece. Sansa had always been wary of the caustic older boy, but she had also felt sympathy for him because of the situation. If Lord Varys' spies tell it true, then Theon will pay for this betrayal.

The crowd has grown silent amidst the serious conversation, and Sansa looks up to see Cersei's gaze focused on her intently. She swallows and tunes back into the argument the Small Council is waging.

"There is no actual proof to these rumors, Lord Varys. The boys may yet live," an older, pepper-haired man interjects.

Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish is an old paramour of Catelyn Tully's, and though he insists that she should, Sansa does not trust him, for many reasons, the most prominent of which is that she has heard from others, that the man is the reason her father is dead.

But regardless his words give her hope. If there are no bodies then it could have been a lie, spun by Theon to protect the boys. This sounds more like the boy she grew to know, and Sansa's heartache eases ever so slightly.

"It does not matter which of the Starks still lives! I have commanded Winterfell to Lord Bolton, end of discussion!" Joffrey's temper makes its appearance.

"Enough banal conversation," he turns to the first man who spoke from the crowd, "What news do you bring me aside from this?"

The man shuffles anxiously, "Nothing, Your Grace. There has been no word from Essos on the progression of the so-called Targaryen Dragon Queen, and Stannis has made himself scarce, hiding in his castle upon Dragonstone, after suffering defeat from the Lannister armies."

This brings a smile to Joffrey's face once more, and the crowd seems to relax.

"Splendid news, my lord. You may step back now," he flicks his hand out lazily.

The gentleman immediately does so, and Joffrey's gaze sweeps the crowd. She knows what's coming, so when his eyes find her, Sansa stiffens her spine, and awaits the order she knows is coming.

"Ah! My lady, step forward!" he crows, "What are your thoughts on the matters we have thus far discussed?"

Sansa complies, and her throat is as dry as Dorne when she replies, "'tis good news, milord."

His brow puckers, and Sansa knows before the day is done he will want something more.

"What say you to giving up Winterfell to the man responsible for murdering your mother and brother?" he's probing now.

Sansa's eyes flicker with anger, but she schools her face to show her indifference to Joffrey's questions. Letting him know how angry she is will only satisfy him.

"It is an honor, Your Grace. The Boltons are an old and powerful House."

"Yes, indeed," Joffrey nods, eyes sparkling with malice, "and his part in slaughtering your family could only have gone better if he had done what his ancestors often did as punishment for their prisoners in war: flaying."

Sansa's clenches her eyes shut when stomach rolls at the image of her mother's sweet-scented, soft skin being rolled back, displaying the mess of red muscle and bone underneath, or her brother's screams as they pulled the scalp off his skull with a dull blade.

"Lady Sansa?" Joffrey calls at the same moment the Throne Room doors burst open.

In a flurry of action, the guards rush the entrance to stop whoever has foolishly chosen to break into a private session, and the crowd begins pushing each other to get out of the way. Fortunately for Sansa, this draws away all prying eyes, because she can no longer control her reaction to Joffrey's spite.

Her eyes snap open, and she brings her gaze up to find Joffrey's malevolent one still fixed on her, unconcerned with the commotion caused by the intruder. When he sees she is looking back, his smirk widens but then flickers before falling. The heat on the back of her neck and underneath her eyes tells Sansa what he sees. Her eyes are no doubt black pits, her pupils blown wide to cover the iris and the whites, and when she slowly wets her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, she can feel her fangs scraping her skin as they descend. She smirks back at the smug prick on the throne, and he sputters for a moment, baffled.

But then, he shrieks like a banshee. Everyone freezes and turns to him, confused.

"Demon!" he points his finger at Sansa.

When they all turn their gaze to her, Sansa feigns confusion, shrugging her shoulders at everyone around her. Her fangs have hidden once more and the flush is gone from her skin so she knows her eyes are their normal brilliant blue. The Small Council are vehemently shushing the King after determining that he must be seeing things, but Joffrey will have none of it.

"She's some kind of beast! Sh-she had pointy teeth and, and black eyes!" He is standing now, and still pointing his finger accusingly at her, "What are you, you freak!? Tell the court! Your king commands you!"

At this moment in his hysterics, Cersei steps in, grabs the offending hand tightly and drags it down to his side.

"That is enough! Have you gone completely mad?" She's attempting to whisper but the best she manages is a normal decibel in her embarrassment.

The crowd is talking amongst themselves loudly and giving her looks, but they seem to decide better that Joffrey was mad instead of her being some monster that came and went in a split second.

'Well, who wouldn't?' Sansa ponders, amused.

The boy-King is led away at the hand of his mother, who is still reprimanding him, and the Small Council dismisses the crowd, following behind the former two. The guards still have ahold of the young man who had burst in unannounced, and from what Sansa can see, it's just the Lord Hand's personal squire. The poor boy, should have known better than to just barge in to the King's Throne Room without prior acquiescence, no matter whose word he brings. For some reason, the Lord Hand was not present at these proceedings, however he will hear of his grandson's… frailty of mind soon enough.

Sansa smiles to herself, humming lightly as she exits the great hall, and wanders her way into the nearby vast gardens. She has an affinity with nature these days, ever since her 'change' after she received her first maiden's blood last year.

There are some whispers from those around her, but all in all they do not seem to last very long, and eventually everyone has gone about their own matters. She stops next to a thorny rose bush and leans down to press her nose into one that is in full bloom. She doesn't register the smell, too focused on her surroundings. The walk through the gardens is a pretense; she knows she's being followed. Unlike last night, Sansa is well aware of whom this person is, and he is thoroughly unwanted.

"Beautiful, aren't they, Lady Sansa?" Petyr Baelish muses, coming to stand beside her.

"What do you want, Lord Baelish," she's in no mood to mask her disdain for him at the moment.

He throws his shoulders back and loses the supposedly charming grin on his lips. He leans in close, his mustache tickling her ear unpleasantly.

"I saw you, my lady. You aren't being very careful, now are you?"

Sansa takes stock of the gardens, making sure there aren't any prying eyes or ears around.

"Don't worry, we're alone."

Sansa's neck heats up, and she grins maniacally before spinning around swiftly.

"Good," She flashes her fangs with a wide grin, "killing someone is always easier without the annoying shrieking."

Lord Baelish makes to step back from her in alarm, but Sansa's hand flies out and grips his neck tightly. His hands come up and try to pry her tiny hand from his throat, but she's a hell of a lot stronger than she looks, so she squeezes just enough to force a gasping gurgle from his open mouth. He keeps one hand on hers, trying to make her let go, and reaches his other one out to strangle her instead. She laughs and grabs it before twisting his wrist until it she hears an obscene 'crunch.' Lord Baelish tries to scream in pain, but the pressure Sansa is putting on his windpipe reduces it to a wheezy little whine.

When the veins underneath his eyes begin to bulge, Sansa forces him onto his knees before her.

"It's not very smart to give away knowledge, like you had about me, to the person it's pertaining to. Why did you do it? You had to know that it would be very foolish of you to approach me."

Lord Baelish takes short, gasping breaths when she pulls back on the pressure so that she's merely holding him now. She waits patiently for a minute as he gets his voice back.

"I wanted to show you that you can trust me, Lady Sansa. I am on your side!"

Sansa has to laugh at that.

"Trust you? Honestly, only a fool and a whore could ever trust you, Baelish. I don't know what you want from me, but you have been pandering after me for three years, and not once has it ever seemed sincere. In fact, I am sure you know that I have heard the rumors that it was YOU who orchestrated this entire war, AND betrayed my father. And now you know my secret, maybe not the specifics, but enough to hinder my plans. So please enlighten me, Lord Baelish, as to why your miserable life is worth saving."

His eyes widen, and she can see that he's realizing the magnitude of his mistake in revealing himself to her.

"Wait! Wait, I swear I won't tell anyone, Lady Sansa! I could have told the King that I saw you change too, but I didn't did I? That has to count for something?! Those are nothing but vicious lies! I loved your mother I would never do anything to bring her harm! Please, my lady, let me help you!"

"Hmm. That is a valid point. Why _didn't_ you say something?" Sansa demands after a moment of thought.

Lord Baelish pauses for a moment, and Sansa's patience is wearing thin.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, you can't tell me, can you?" Sansa tilts her head, and begins to crush his windpipe once more.

He gargles out a muffled 'wait!' and she backs off momentarily, giving him one last chance.

"I-I…" he stutters, "I wanted to gain your trust and I also knew what would happen to you if he could convince anyone what you were. You would have been killed, and I couldn't have that. I owe it to your mother to protect you, and that's what I'm gonn-"

The increased pressure on his throat cuts him off, "How dare you! You still deny everything I have said thus far? Everything word that slips from your mouth is a filthy lie, Littlefinger."

With that Sansa releases his throat abruptly before gripping one head on the back of his head and the other on his chin, and grasps both firmly before wrenching her hands to the side sharply. The resounding 'crack' lets her know that his neck is well and fully broken. Pleased, Sansa drops the lifeless body to the ground and focuses her hearing to be certain that there is no one in the vicinity. She can hear the whooshing of the small river further down in the gardens, and the squawking of some sort of bird in the tree a few feet away, but the closest human heartbeat that she can clearly hear is approximately seventy to eighty yards away, and she can tell it's coming from on top of a heavier, thicker beat-a horse, so it's likely passing by.

In this situation, Sansa would normally consume the body to hide the evidence. But the thought of eating Petyr Baelish makes her want to throw up. He's the last person she wants to have inside of her. So instead, she grips his ankle and hoists him up over her shoulder from behind so that his leg is in front of her and his head hanging over her back. Not the most comfortable position, but it will do.

She walks to the edge of the gardens, just far enough to be able to see the stables on one side and the keep on the other, but not to be seen herself. Sansa is still attempting to figure out what to do with the body when she sees it: the gate leading down to the crypt of the Dragons. It is where they keep the skulls of the pet dragons from the Targaryen reign. It also happens to be where the current leaders keep their own pets: lions.

"Perfect," Sansa cheers under her breath.

The Gardens extend cover up to around fifteen feet away from the entrance to the crypt, but it's still going to be difficult not to be seen. That would be quite a sight: a hundred pound young woman carrying a man at least half that over her shoulder effortlessly.

Guess I'll have to move quickly then won't I? Sansa jokes to herself.

She has travelled to the bushes nearest the crypt door and when she has a clear shot, Sansa lets the anticipation she feels, heat the nape of her neck once more, and she purses her lips in concentration as she changes.

When she feels the blood thrumming in her chest, and feels her fangs biting into her bottom lip, she knows she's ready. She adjusts Littlefinger's body over her shoulder, and sprints to the crypt door with her preternatural speed, whirring past an unattended mare in the process, which whinnies and rears up at the unseen, but sensed danger. Sansa pays her no mind, and is through the unlocked door within a second.

Once inside, she drops her decomposing luggage to the ground unceremoniously. She needs to find the guards, because if the door is unlocked that means there's someone working with the lions. She walks down the short hallway and peers around the corner into the den filled with cages of prowling lions. The floor plan is quite open and spacious, with nowhere to hide, so Sansa sees right away that it's empty. The guard must have simply forgotten to lock up.

"Lucky me," Sansa hums, skipping back over to the body blocking the door.

This time she merely drags him by the collar of his doublet down the hall and around the corner. The lions take notice immediately and begin growling and stalking their cages agitatedly. There are five females and three males all in separate enclosures.

Sansa looks from one cage to the next on repeat, "Eenie, meanie, minie, moe…" she sings.

Her eyes land on the youngest male at the far end of the den. He looks thinner than the rest, and very hungry. His piercing gold eyes examine her as she walks up and when she sticks Petyr's head through the bars of the cage, the young lion pounces on it with paws and teeth.

"Perfect."

Sansa lifts the body and turns it so that it will squeeze through the bars- it does which is concerning since the lion is not much bigger than Baelish is. Though Sansa imagines it's not simply kept here because of the bars, but rather because it knows it gets a steady supply of meals.

When he sees what she's doing the lion helps her by dragging the body all the way into the cage, wrapping itself around its new snack. In the few short minutes that she has been standing here, the face of Littlefinger has already been peeled off and slithered down the feline's throat, his eyes shortly to follow if the way the young lion is digging into the eye sockets with his claws is any hint.

Sansa turns and walks away, confident, that when she wakes on the morrow, the day will be just as any other, and none will have news that their Master of Coin is being digested as they speak. Watching the lion feed has sparked her own appetite though. So when she slinks out from the crypt, Sansa heads towards the stables next door. Surely there's a stable boy or two to be found.

"Can I help you, Miss?" comes the voice of a teenage boy with dark hair and a shy smile.

He is carrying a pitchfork, resting lightly in his hand, so he was likely just pitching hay for the horses. Sansa turns to face him where he came upon her from an empty stall. She steps forward, forcing him to step back into it. She brings a hand up to rest on the hand he holds the pitchfork with, and gently loosens his grip until he drops the weapon. Then she slides her hand up the length of his arm, massaging his bicep when she reaches it. She flutters her eyelashes, and he blushes brightly all the way down his neck and under the collar of his loose shirt.

"Why yes, darling. Yes, you can," she smiles.

He lets her put her lips on his neck and moans when she uses her tongue to flick out a taste. But by the time he realizes her intentions aren't what he thought, her teeth are in his throat, her body pressing his against the wall, and his blood is flowing ever so sweetly into her eager mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

Being made out as a fool in front of an audience would bruise even the least prideful man's ego, so when a member of the Kingsgaurd knocks on her door early the morning after the debacle in court, Sansa is unsurprised.

"My lady, it is Ser Clegane," Shae pointedly emphasizes the 'ser,' customarily put in front of a knight's name.

Sandor glares at her handmaiden, but says nothing. Time used to be that he used to growl at her for calling him that, but since he's given away that he despises the courtesy, Shae has been determined to use it as often as possible. Sansa knows they dislike each other, but has not yet given up on forcing a friendship between the two.

"Shae," she admonishes her friend with a look.

Shae rolls her eyes, but bows minutely before retreating to Sansa's solar. Sansa turns to Sandor with a grin, and raises one eyebrow teasingly.

"I think she likes you."

Sandor snorts at the same time Shae shouts from behind her 'When pigs fly, milady!' Sansa is beyond amused.

"Yeah, what she said," Sandor retorts.

Sansa huffs but knows for now the subject is done with. She waves him into her room, but he shakes his head.

"Best not, Little Bird. The King is most anxious to see you," he replies.

"Ah, yes. I assume it has to do with court yesterday. He seems to think I'm some sort of monster. He had a vision of some sort, I'm not sure," she shrugs her shoulders offhandedly.

Sandor frowns, "Yeah, if I'd have known you were going to be foolish; I would have declined the day off to keep an eye on you."

She narrows her eyes, "Who said I did anything?"

He just looks at her. His eyes are beautiful enough to get lost in, but she can't let herself get distracted right now so she looks away first.

"Come on, Little Bird," he sighs, "Can't wait much longer now, don't want to make him mad."

"I'm shaking," she replies wryly.

Nevertheless, he's right. The poorer the mood the harder he will have her beaten. At least, that is how it happened in the past. Not today. Sansa intends to show Joffrey that she will not kneel before him any longer. It's about time things started going her way.

"Okay, Shae!" she calls, "I'm off to see our beloved King."

Shae emerges from the solar with a few blankets in need of mending, and a pinched expression.

"Of course, Lady Sansa. Shall I prepare a bath for your return?"

Sansa always desired a bath to soothe the aches and clean the cuts she got after 'meetings' with Joffrey, but it won't be needed today.

"No, that's alright, Shae. I won't need one this time."

Shae looks doubtful, but nods at her mistress before heading over to a chair to begin her work. Sansa turns around and gestures for Sandor to lead the way. He doesn't, but steps aside for her to walk ahead of him.

"For one whom so hates courtesies, you sure extend quite a few of them, Sandor," she grins impishly up at him.

"Only for you, Little Bird."

Sansa's heart thrums like the wings of a hummingbird. Sandor can be downright ugly, but she's always seen his charms. She feels honored that he has chosen to bestow them upon her of all people. When he comes up to her side as they walk, she reaches out and brushes his hand with hers. When he looks down at her from the corner of his eyes, she keeps her head straight forward and pretends it was an accident. He brushes her hand back.

When they come to a stop at the King's private rooms, Sansa is intrigued. Normally the King prefers to meet in the Throne Room with as many witnesses as possible to her humiliation. This is unprecedented. Perhaps, she frightened him more than she originally thought? The guards in front of his door step aside for Sandor as he pulls the doors open and announces her presence.

"The Lady Sansa, Your Grace."

"Well don't just stand there! Let her in!" comes the shrill voice of the King.

Sandor gives her what she assumes is meant to be a comforting look, but she can tell he is worried himself. She smiles brightly at him, before gliding into the large foyer. The doors close behind her and then it is just Joffrey and his squire waiting in the room. Aware of the second set of ears, Sansa decides to play it safe. For now.

"You summoned me, Your Grace?"

Joffrey does not look fooled by her play at ignorance. He waves his hand at the squire and the boy hurries out of the room.

"We may speak freely now, Lady Sansa," he attempts to give her a sneer, but its shaky.

Sansa can tell he has not fared well since their last meeting. He looks pale and sweaty with bags under his eyes indicating his lack of sleep the night before. She wonders if he kept up his raving about her after he left the Throne Room, or if he played it smart and went silent. He's not known for his intelligence though so she assumes the latter.

"You do not look well, _Your Grace_ ," she stresses the honorary title disdainfully.

The sentiment is not lost on the boy-King. He scowls at her venomously, but makes no move to admonish her. Probably fearing her, until he figures out the threat level she proposes.

"I saw you. Yesterday, your face-it changed," his tone is accusing.

She contemplates denying for a moment, but then, "Yes it did."

His mouth opens and then closes; he looks befuddled that she didn't deny it. He shifts in his chair, but then decides better of sitting and stands.

As if that would make him appear any more commanding, Sansa scoffs internally.

At nearly five and ten she is already an inch or two taller than him. He must find it emasculating.

"That's impossible."

"I think you will find a great many things possible in this world, Your Grace, many of which would astound you."

"What are you?"

Sansa purses her lips and gives him a patronizing stare. He seems to understand she will not deny what he saw, but she's not going to make it easy for him. She can see his fists clenching and unclenching nervously by his sides before he crosses them over his chest.

He gives her an imperious look down the bottom of his nose- quite a feat considering their height difference- and demands an answer.

"You will tell me, or I shall have the guards beat you until you do."

"Your Grace, if I may," she stalks slowly towards him, "as it stands now, you are the only one who saw anything. And regardless of any beatings you may wish to give me, no one will ever believe you. They'll think it was coerced."

Joffrey opens his mouth but she holds up a hand, and he looks incredulous that she would interrupt him.

She smiles sweetly, "but don't worry. I won't let them believe you mad, as they did at court yesterday. I intend to reveal my nature in good time."

Joffrey looks mildly relieved but then after a moment wariness crosses his face.

"Don't think that because of whatever you are that anything changes around here."

Sansa laughs loudly at that. Joffrey looks affronted. When she has recovered, Sansa turns her smile feral, and wills her fangs to descend. The usual flush of heat and the look on Joffrey's face tells her she has succeeded. She steps forward and leans in so they're only an inch or so apart. Joffrey freezes under the stare of her pitch black eyes. She can hear his heart thumping wildly in his chest; his natural aroma smells sweeter to her senses, due to all the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream.

"Sweet, stupid little Joffrey," he doesn't notice the insult, so frightened he is.

She lifts her hand to his face, running her fingers over his cheekbone and down to his neck. She rests the flat of her hand against the skin above his jugular vein and can feel the pulsing of the viscous liquid beneath it. She licks her lips and tastes the stagnant odor of fear in the air. It is very arousing, and she can feel her own skin tingling with the anticipation of an imminent kill.

"Oh, the things I'm going to enjoy doing to you."

He swallows loudly, and she can hear the walls of his throat sticking together indicating his dry mouth. Sansa's hand leaves the side of his neck, and drops down to her side; she shifts her eyes back to blue and retracts her fangs.

"But I'm not going to. Yet. I still have need of you."

"I-I can call for m-my guards, right this second, and they'll kill you," he squeaks out weakly despite the monster being gone from her face.

She cocks her head and turns her eyes to the ceiling in mock contemplation. She 'hmm's and taps her chin before looking back down at him and winking.

"They could try. How do you feel about a little game? You call for your friends, and I'll see if I can't rip your throat out with my teeth first, hmm?"

He snaps his head from side to side like a child whose parents just accused them of doing something bad.

'What a pity. All that macho bravado for the masses, but when faced with a real threat, he's nothing but an overly conceited little boy,' Sansa thinks in disgust.

"That's what I thought," she smiles beatifically and then turns to head back to his doors, "we are finished here, correct?"

When she turns back to face him for an answer he coughs out a 'yes.'

"Good. Oh, and I know I don't have to tell you to keep your mouth shut, now do I?"

He shakes his head, and she smiles once more before exiting. Sandor is still waiting for her on the other side, and looks confused- happy- but confused. He is well aware of how these meetings usually end and is obviously wondering why she's one-smiling, and two-not limping.

Sansa shakes her head infinitesimally to show that she can't say anything yet, looking at the other two guards stationed in front of the King's doors. He nods and gestures for her to lead the way back to her room.

They walk in silence until they reach her rooms, and then he stops her with his hand on her arm.

"What's going on, Little Bird?"

Sansa just looks up at him silently. He looks back for a minute but then shifts his feet, uncomfortable with her attention on his face for so long. Smiling sadly at this, Sansa lifts a hand to his face, the scarred side, and palms it gently. He turns away slightly, unused to a kind touch. She uses her other hand to turn it back so that she is holding his head in her hands and staring into his grey eyes.

"I can't tell you, Sandor."

His brow puckers, and he brings one of his large gloved hands up to rest on her smooth, bare forearm. The strength in his arm is enormous, but the touch is as lighter as a feather. The expression on his face can only be described as stone. She can tell he is offended.

"Sandor, I'm sorry. Just, not yet. Okay? I need you to keep looking at me the way you always have...like I'm this delicate 'Little Bird,' because I'm not-I'm really, really not, and I'd like to keep pretending for a little while. Do you understand?" She pleads, caressing his face tenderly.

"Only for you, Little Bird," he rasps.

Sansa's eyes sting with tears as she digests what exactly he is telling her. He trusts her, when he has never trusted anyone in his life before. She smiles brightly through her tears, and he smiles tentatively back. Giggling shyly she takes her hands off of his cheeks, and nods before turning to go into her rooms.

"Hey," he calls just before she shuts the door.

She turns, eyebrows raised.

"You'll always be a Little Bird to me."

She watches him walk away until he's out of sight, the blush that bloomed on her cheeks lasted for hours, but her trust in him would last the rest of her life.


	4. Chapter 4

Playing the Game of Thrones is not as easy as it looks, Sansa has found out; especially when you choose an irrational, boy-King as your only chess piece. It's been a fortnight since she revealed herself to Joffrey, and as of yet, all he has managed to do is muck up the works. She has given him directives to put in place as the King, and he has been overruled every time by his overbearing mother, the meddling Small Council, and worst of all: the self-important Tywin Lannister, the Lord Hand. She is beginning to think perhaps she needs another pawn to work with the one she has. Someone to whisper her orders into the ears of those truly in power behind the Throne, but that can also do it with the tiniest bit of finesse, and doesn't throw temper tantrums to get his way.

Scaring Joffrey into becoming her bitch is actually not as satisfying as Sansa originally thought. And thus, she must choose another to orchestrate her plans behind the scenes. She is lounging in her solar with a book resting in her lap, contemplating her options when she receives a most unexpected visitor.

"Lord Varys," Sansa greets after Shae has allowed him entrance, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The heavyset eunuch bows to her as she rises from her seat to give him her hand in greeting. He places a chaste kiss on the back of it and then gestures to a chair "May I?"

She gives a polite nod and they both take a seat across from one another.

"Are we alone, my lady?"

"Shae," Sansa pauses until her handmaiden surfaces from the bedroom, "Would you be a dear and head out to the city for me? I am in dire need of some new thread."

Shae courtesies dutifully, giving Lord Varys a frown on her way out the door.

"What is it that requires such subterfuge, my Lord?" Sansa jokes when they are alone.

Lord Varys becomes quiet for a moment, then, "If I may speak freely, Lady Sansa…"

"Yes, of course."

"I am quite concerned about the well-being of the King."

Sansa's eyebrows could not rise higher if she tried, "Excuse me?"

"Yes, he seems to be growing increasingly…willful shall we say. Refuses to hear any arguments against his commands. And when proposed alternatives, he becomes overtly hostile. I am worried that there may be something wrong," his gaze remains fixed on hers.

"I'm sorry, I am just confused. Why come to me, Lord Varys?" Sansa's smile is tight.

"Well we both know the answer to that, Lady Sansa."

Her gaze sharpens, and she stiffens ever so slightly in her seat.

"Really? I must confess, my Lord, I haven't an inkling as to what you are implying."

And then she smells it. Yarrow.

She lurches away from the table and backs herself into the corner, hissing at him. Her fangs have descended and she can feel the heat on her neck that signals that her pupils have expanded. On instinct, in response to the danger she can sense wafting off the man in front of her, Sansa's nails have also extended several inches out from their natural length. Her breath is coming in harsh pants from behind her clenched teeth as she glares him down.

The man breaks out of a stunned stupor caused by her supernatural speed, and cautiously rises from his chair. He holds his hands out in the universal sign for surrender, palms up facing her. This does not appease her. Her skin crawls when she inhales deeply through her nose and the stench of Yarrow seed causes her to whine and swipe at her nose to remove the offending stench. Lord Varys slides one hand into a fold within his robes and what he pulls out forces a guttural growl from her throat.

"I wasn't entirely certain; you're quite good at detecting my little spiders, Lady Sansa. They could never find you when you did not wish it so, but I had my suspicions. There is no doubt, now, though is there?"

Sansa doesn't answer, merely glowers hatefully. How dare he bring Yarrow seed to her rooms! The hubris! She should strip the skin from his body and pick her teeth with his bones.

"This is a locket that I received from an old friend, long ago. He said it would come in handy one day. I can see he was right. If I didn't hold this, there would be nothing stopping you from killing me, corerct?" Varys questions her.

Yarrow is a highly unpleasant flowering plant with a very long history. The plant itself is fairly harmless despite the foul scent, but when ingested or placed in open wounds it is deadly to Sansa's kind. Because the universe is created in balance, the Gods decided that for all of the strengths making them superior: her species must have a weakness that puts them back on an even playing field with the mortals. Yarrow is one such Achilles heel. Varys is right to fear her, but he is truly foolish if he believes that a crushed up bit of flower inside of a golden locket is going to stop her from ending his life, should she see fit.

Sansa stands up from her crouch, "Lord Varys, you are very well informed, it seems."

She stalks back towards him, and when she is within reach, she lifts a curved, black claw up to the locket dangling from his fingers on a thin delicate chain. Twining the chain around her nail, she then pulls it taut.

"Pardon my outburst, I was merely startled," she flashes her fangs in a sneer, "but it seems that your information is faulty in one small aspect."

Lord Varys cocks his head slightly in question.

"There IS nothing stopping me from killing you," and with that she yanks the chain wrapped around her claw and it snaps.

The locket falls and when it hits the floor it pops open, revealing the dried, crushed up leaves of a Yarrow flower. Sansa laughs at the startled on the Master of Spies face.

"That plant, these leaves," she jerks her chin at the mess on the floor, "they're quite offensive to my delicate senses, but merely touching them will not kill me. Surely, your sources informed you of that? Why else would you be here, a sudden desire to be devoured?"

After composing himself, Lord Varys meets her eyes with an impressive amount of bravery; more than she has ever witnessed thus far in a mortal who is being stared down by her demon.

"My lady, I came with protection- however poor it is- only so that I might buy some time to speak with you, in the case that you intended to kill me before you heard me out."

Sansa's nose tells her that though there is an adequate amount of fear staining the air, there is no hint of deceit in this man's scent. She can always smell a liar.

"I must say, you have captured my attention, my lord. Please, enlighten me as to your true purpose then, if not to threaten me."

"I wish to make an alliance with you," is his immediate, blunt reply.

'Now, isn't that interesting,' Sansa muses, thinking back on Littlefinger's own proposal nigh on a fortnight past.

"Why?"

At this inquiry, the balding man's previously truthful scent becomes mixed with a streak of…not nervousness exactly, but perhaps a tension of some sort. She can smell the sweat that she sees beading on his smooth skull.

'His skull is literally shining, I wonder what it would be like to tear into such a texture where I am used to there being only hair…Like a human shaped apple…' she licks her lips.

"Well?" she snaps, hoping that she may get to satiate her curiosity after all, granted that he proves to be less an asset and more of a liability.

"I serve the good of the realm, my dear. And I do not know much about you, Lady Sansa, or how much better someone of your…particular nature would do on the Throne, but I do know that the current status of the Crown is not ideal. I cannot see the Lannister Reign ending well in any scenario."

"Neither can I. Though, to be fair, that is because I intend to be the one to make it happen. Eventually. For now, they have their uses. I do not covet the Iron Throne, Lord Varys. Let us make that quite understood between us right now," Sansa warns.

"Hmm…you do not want the Iron Throne, but what of the Northern one? The one your brother sought to claim."

The North declared its independence from the Seven Kingdoms when the war for the Iron Throne broke out, and ever since they have maintained that decree, even after their King was murdered. Sansa wishes for only what the Northern lords desire, and if she were to announce herself to them, and they were to accept her, declare for her…then yes, she would do the best she could to honor them. That said, she isn't sure she is going to actively seek to make it so.

"I am unsure. Under a certain set of circumstances, I believe I would accept the title of Queen. But as it stands now, my only mission is to bring down all those have caused harm to me and mine. Anything or anyone else is simply collateral damage," she gives him a pointed look at the end of her statement.

"And what of the other contenders for the Throne? You would let whoever conquers Westeros successfully, be the next ruler? Stannis Baratheon, the Targaryen heiress?"

"Stannis is a shell of a man, or so I've heard. The Lannisters destroyed his army and have him cornered at Dragonstone; it is highly unlikely he shall be in the position anytime soon to conquer anything more grueling than a wineskin of arbor gold. As for the infamous Mother of Dragons…" she trails off, turning to face an open window to her left.

The sun has begun its descent to the horizon, and it's radiating a vibrancy of hues across the evening sky. The scarlet tone painted closest to the earth reminds her of a flame burning brightly. Sansa used to love fire as an adolescent. It was always moving, shifting with the winds, and it had mesmerized her. The way that nothing could keep it from burning had inspired her; you couldn't keep it still or control it, and if you tried it would only end up being extinguished. Sansa has come to feel that the flame signifies that which cannot be tamed in life: like herself. You cannot control her, or confine her, the only way to stop her is death, not an easy feat. The Mother of Dragons has been on the run from assassins since her father, Mad King Aerys himself was murdered, and the Throne besieged. Call her sentimental, but there is something...kin-like in her thoughts of the fierce woman.

When word from the masses across the Narrow Sea reported that Daenerys Targaryen birthed three dragons through pure and unselfish sacrifice, some doubted it to be true, in fact most did; but Sansa has learned that most people don't like change, anything that forces them to redefine their views of the world. The last known dragon lived over three hundred years ago, any true witnesses to that era are dead and gone, and as a result, Sansa feels that the old magic that Westeros was created upon has slowly been disappearing from the hearts and minds of its inhabitants ever since.

Pardoning herself, Sansa has yet to hear of any others who have been born with the blood of the Old Gods running so strongly in their veins. Her demon, or monster, or whatever people want to call it, is a gift. Throughout the generations, the blood from the first noble Houses has become so diluted that very few of the existing nobles have any true heritage or connection to the ancestors. House Stark is one of the most ancient Houses still in existence, which is why Sansa believes she was born the way she is. Because of her strong ties to the Old Gods and the First Men, she refers to herself as a 'Link,' representing the twining of the past with the present.

Daenerys Targaryen is the last living member of House Targaryen, and their bloodline has been around for as long as- if not longer than- Sansa's own. She is inclined to believe in the girl, and her dragons. Her mother had always taught her to believe in the benefit of the doubt, often cautioning her to judging too quickly.

'Sometimes, people may surprise you. But in order for them to do that, you must to give them that benefit, sweet girl.'

The more Sansa replays the memory in her mind, the more she can see that maybe Daenerys is not the only one the saying could apply to. She sweeps her gaze critically over Lord Varys who has been waiting patiently for her reply and finds that despite the…incident with the Yarrow, there is nothing to indicate he wouldn't be just the alliance she needs to further her agenda. His own agenda on the other hand is still up in the air- "the good of the realm" is not a ringing endorsement upon his skills at deception. Perhaps a little leeway, a little privacy, could be a better start to this relationship than fear as she had done with Joffrey though, so...

Sansa inhales deeply-ignoring the stench of Yarrow still permeating the air- and focuses on centering her emotions, once having done so she releases her grip on the change from human to Link, allowing her more animalistic features to mold back into their fairer mortal ones.

"...I can't wait to meet her," Sansa finishes, dark eyes connecting with his calculative gaze.

Lord Varys' eyes hold an unexpected emotion in them at her statement: respect. For what, she is not certain, perhaps he is more biased towards the silver-haired heiress than he had initially revealed to Sansa. The 'why' is of no import to her, but the fact that it is present, gives her faith that their collaboration will be a success; Respect being key to any good alliance.

"Shall we discuss terms, Lord Varys?"

"At your ease, my dear," he agrees, before holding a finger up to signal for a moment of patience on her part.

He leans down with obvious difficulty and picks up the forgotten locket of Yarrow. She raises an eyebrow with a challenge in her eyes, Lord Varys does not disappoint. He walks to the brazier located at the back of the solar; and without breaking her stare, he flings the disgusting trinket onto the heated coals.


	5. Chapter 5

Coming to a mutual agreement on where they stand, takes longer than Sansa would like. Lord Varys doesn't seem to have an issue with any of her plans-at least the very vague few she has revealed to him- but he does have a problem with her appetite. And after three hours in discussion, Sansa finally decides to put him in his place. This alliance is not equal, it is not a partnership. He must learn that she is the superior one in their relationship. She is willing to concede on certain matters in order to attain his favor, but she refuses to allow another man to dictate her own personal affairs.

"I am failing to see how it is any concern of yours what, or _who_ I eat, Lord Varys."

He winces at her word choice but looks otherwise un-phased, "My lady, I am only asking that you refrain from…partaking in any such activity within the walls of this city. It will draw unwanted attention that we cannot afford, if we are to go forth with your plans."

"I have heard quite enough. You have already told me this, and more, but I can handle myself, Varys. How do you think I have been surviving here? I know how to hunt. I know how to feed. I know how to remain hidden, and I do not need your assistance. That is the end of this conversation. Do you understand?"

When he looks like he is going to argue, Sansa releases her fangs and bares them in irritation.

"My kind is not known for their patience, and I have extended mine far past its limits these last couple hours, my lord."

"I think it wise that we conclude our discussion then, Lady Sansa," he gulps, standing to leave.

"Yes. We know where we stand, and you know what you must do next?" she checks.

Bowing to her he responds, "I will begin my preparations right away."

She nods and waves her hand, dismissing him. When he is gone, Sansa sighs deeply, massaging her temples. For a 'Master of Spies' Lord Varys is surprisingly lacking in personal knowledge of the courts. At least, what he knows is not applicable to her plans. However, at least she can take pleasure in knowing that- according to a spy he has placed in the King's quarters- Joffrey is having nightmares. Sansa is willing to bet she's starring in at least half of them, if not all. He is still having difficulty with following through on her orders, though. Something has to be done or he will expose her, indirectly, by allowing those around him to come to the conclusion he is being manipulated. This will not do, perhaps she should have another chat with him. Soon.

Forgetting about the Throne for a moment, Sansa lets her mind wander to more calming matters. Sandor and she have grown closer and closer this last year. Before, when they first met, she was only one and ten. A child, and he had frightened her so she distanced herself. But after she received her first moonblood (which he awkwardly witnessed), they had grown steadily more intimate with one another. Friends she would have dared to say.

Then, during the Battle of the Blackwater, when he came into her room and demanded she escape with him, it broke her heart to say no. There was blood streaked across his face, and terror in his dark eyes, and she wanted so badly to leave, to follow him wherever he may go. But then there would be another explosion of wildfire, and she would recall why she couldn't. She needed to stay, for her revenge. She couldn't let them all get away with it. Couldn't let a Lannister sit on the Throne. So he put a blade to her throat and demanded she sing for him, and she had done so gladly.

"Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy.

Save our _men_ from war, we pray.

Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Let them know a better day."

The knife in his hand shook when he registered the way she doctored the lyrics. He just stood there and gazed at her, tears flowing freely from his eyes, and he dropped the knife before turning his back and storming out the door. She was terrified that he would leave anyway, without her, but the next day when the smoke cleared, and the fires died down, there he stood. Her protector. Ever since, they have developed a close bond, but they've never discussed it, or what happened that night. It weighs heavily on her mind at times, wondering if he stayed for her, if it meant something.

Sansa prides herself on her courage. Where once she would have cowered beneath those who sought to demean her, now, she has risen above. Her 'change' allowed her that bravery, that freedom that others don't have. But she's still weak in one regard: her love for Sandor. And she cannot bring herself to bare her heart to him unless she knows he feels the same. But alas, she'll probably only find out if she asks. As direct as he is, Sandor's never been known to talk about feelings or emotions, she can tell it makes him feel vulnerable. And she can understand why he wouldn't want to be that way, after what happened when he was a child. But she wants to heal him; she wants to show him that it can be good. That _they_ can be good. She just doesn't know how. Suddenly the door bursts open, startling Sansa out of her thoughts.

"My lady! My lady we have to go! We need to get to Maegor's holdfast!" Shae shouts hurriedly, sprinting toward her.

She pulls her up from her recliner by the fireplace, and proceeds to drag her to the door before Sansa can speak a word.

"Shae! What is going on? Seven Hells, slow down!" she forces them to a halt.

"There is no time, Lady Sansa! There's been an attack on the city and they've already breached the castle walls! We have to hide!" Shae explains frantically, pulling on her arm.

"An attack? By who!?" Sansa says, shocked.

The Baratheons are out of the game, for now at least, and the Targaryen girl is overseas still. The North rallies for their own throne, but they don't have nearly enough troops to make it through King's Landing this quickly before the castle sounded the alarm. Whoever is here, did so covertly. They have skill, and apparently the numbers to work through the city guard.

Shae turns fearful eyes on her mistress, "They don't know, Lady Sansa. They're not from any House that we know of nor are they flying any sigils. It's unprecedented."

"Okay, alright. Let's get to the holdfast. We'll be safe there, don't worry," Sansa soothes her, seeing the terror in her usually fearless friend's eyes.

They sprint down the hall and into the open courtyard, which they must pass through to get to the famed safe room. The courtyard is in absolute chaos. There are women and children running around, screaming. And Sansa can see some of the Lannister guards fighting off the enemy. But what grabs her attention isn't who these people are, but what. And it isn't numbers that are aiding them in their attack, it's strength.

"Links," Sansa breathes, incredulous.

How can this be? I thought there were so few left? What if I'm mistaken?

But even as she thinks it, Sansa knows she's not wrong. The evidence is undeniable. There are men with black claws extended from their fingers, and an equally dark blackness in their eyes. Those would be her kind. Her kin. There are other links as well, but only one kind that she can identify from this distance.

There are a couple of women with bright golden irises and fangs that come from both the top and the bottom of their gums. Those would be The 'Tigris,' fierce warrior women that hail from the land known as the Red Waste in Essos. The only reason Sansa recognizes them is because she came across a young Tigrate girl several moons ago, whilst she was on a rare trip through the markets. The girl had sensed the Link heritage in Sansa and taken pity on her lack of knowledge. She informed Sansa on what she was, which is how she knows that their species are called Links, and she spent hours teaching Sansa everything she knew of their species, and the many different kinds that existed. This was the first time Sansa learned of what her own kind were called: The 'Canis' or sometimes The 'Lupine.'

Unfortunately, the girl also made sure Sansa knew that they were a dying breed, that centuries upon centuries of diluted bloodlines, were eliminating the magic that awoke in Links during their coming of age years. (Sansa's moonblood was her awakening.) And Sansa had resigned herself to the fact that she would likely meet very few of her species within her lifetime, and felt blessed that the little Tigrate had found her. Obviously, they were wrong.

There must be at least forty or fifty of them, Sansa notes, in wonder.

And they are every bit as vicious as she is. As Sansa watches, a middle-aged Tigrate man with an auburn beard thrusts his fist through the iron chest place of a Lannister guard and when he pulls it back out, the man's heart is still beating in the palm of his hand.

"My lady? We have to find another way around, we cannot go through there!" Shae screams, when she sees Sansa take a few steps into the courtyard.

"Shh, it's going to be alright, Shae, I promise," she turns to the protesting woman.

"I need you to do something for me," Shae frowns but nods, "find Sandor and have him take you to Maegor's okay? There's a passage through the crypts, go now. I will meet you there."

She starts shaking her head before Sansa finishes, "No! I cannot leave you here! You'll be killed!"

Sansa allows the change to happen, feeling the heat on the nape of her neck rise in temperature.

"No, Shae. I will explain everything later okay? I'm going to be just fine," She says, fangs digging into her bottom lip as she does so.

At first it seems like her handmaiden will faint, but then she takes a few deep breaths and looks into Sansa's pitch eyes when she gives her acquiescence. Sansa in return, gives her a reassuring grin and sends her back the way they came. She watches as her friend takes numerous glances back to see Sansa's true features, but finally Shae gives her a tentative, but real smile before turning completely and running to find Sandor.

Sansa whips back around to face the carnage, when she hears a loud roar headed straight for her. Crouching down in a defensive position, she bares her teeth and growls back at the encroaching Link. He stops in his tracks, and Sansa can see it is the heart-ripper who had been intent on attacking her. He cocks his head before flashing his teeth in a feral grin. He throws his head back and lets loose an ear-splitting shriek that reverberates through the courtyard and likely the castle too. Immediately, Sansa can see the effect.

The rest of the Links let out their own answering shrieks, and they become frenzied in their attacks on the guards, finishing them off quickly. She can hear similar shrieks in the distance a few seconds later that sound as if they're coming from different parts of the castle, confirming her theory on the distance of his cry.

Sansa keeps her eyes on the Tigrate man as he circles her, eyeing her from head to toe. With her peripheral vision she can see the rest of the creatures in the area converge upon the two of them, forming a loose circle around her. Sansa waits for them to do something, anything, and while they stand there still and silent, more Links emerge from various doorways around the courtyard. Some of them are even leaping out of windows from places high up, and landing on the ground, unharmed, before striding to stand in the grouping around her. Her nose tells her just as her eyes can see, that every Link there is absolutely drenched in blood.

Finally Sansa releases the man's gaze to stare at some of the others, and they are all staring back. The different shining of colors in their eyes creates a strange effect, and that coupled with their claws and fangs, some even have scales, only emphasizes their preternatural heritage. Rather than feeling out of place, though, for once in her life, Sansa feels like she's found her place. These are her people. They may all have different bloodlines, and different abilities, or different looks, but they are all descended from the Old Gods, and they are her kin.

So she comes out of her defensive crouch, and smiles, fangs and all, "Hello, my name is Sansa Stark."

The red-bearded man, after having spent ten minutes giving her the once-over and seeming to approve, laughs heartily and sticks his hand out, "Lord Jon Connington, my Lady. It is a pleasure to meet you. But we already know who you are. You're the reason we're here."

Connington…? Why does that name sound so familiar? Sansa wonders, but then the next part of his reply sinks in.

"Um, I-I'm sorry, what?" Sansa sputters.

"You met my daughter, Ingrid, a while back, did you not?" Lord Connington turns and waves someone from the crowd forward.

A young, thin girl with his looks comes up next to him and puts her arm around his. When she looks up at her, through the blood covering her angelic features, Sansa can recognize the little girl from so long ago that taught her the ways of their people.

"Ingrid? That's a lovely name," Sansa gives her a small smile.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you! I had to keep it a secret," she pleads with Sansa.

"It's okay, sweetheart. But I don't understand, what are you all doing here?" she directs the second part to Connington.

"Isn't it obvious? We've come to your aid. It is well known across all of Westeros and even parts of Essos that the Lions are keeping you hostage here, my Lady, but when my Ingrid told us that she met the captive daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and that she was one of us, we knew we had to come," he replies.

Oh, dear. They thought she needed rescuing? How sweet.

"That's very kind of you, my Lord, but if I wanted to leave, I am sure you all know that I could have. I haven't left because I have things to do here. Things that can only be done from the inside."

Lord Connington has an understanding look on his face when he nods.

"Of course, we gathered that you could find a way out of trouble if needed," he agrees easily, "but we would still like to help however we can Lady Stark. You're one of us. And considering there are so few descendants of the Old Gods and far too many of the First Men, we need to look out for one another."

Sansa isn't sure what to do. She's never been in such a situation. Should she turn them away and handle everything herself? Not that it's going to well at the moment. But then she remembers what she told Joffrey about revealing herself. She didn't plan on doing so just yet, and she had told Varys the exact same thing, but now…looking around at all the carnage that her brethren have wrought upon the castle, and presumably the city, she's not sure she has much of a choice. She can't help but think it might be a blessing in disguise. She won't be alone in it; her kin will be there to quell any uprising from the people. And she can handle the Lannisters herself.

Oh Gods, are we really going to do this? Sansa's thinks in disbelief.

But then she looks up at the eyes gazing back at her, at the happiness so obvious in their postures and expressions at having found another of their kind; She surveys the courtyard, taking in the mangled corpses of the Lannister guards, and to her surprise, the few brave noblemen and women hovering at the edges of the courtyard watching them cautiously. They look frightened, but not disgusted like she imagined they would. It's more like they are in awe. A swell of pride rises up in Sansa's chest when she thinks about her people.

Maybe it won't be as bad as I think, if it's done right, Sansa concedes, but we have to be careful.

"Did you leave anyone alive on your way into King's Landing?"

"Of course," a woman with turquoise scales covering her body and stilted Common Tongue speech pipes up, "we kill only armed man when we sneak in the walls. We made sure to do it quiet, in dark places or alone. If there were witnesses they make no noise."

"That's actually perfect. Thank you," Sansa smiles at her, "what about inside the castle?"

The woman becomes silent and looks to Connington.

"I instructed them only to maim, not kill. And only those who stood in the way of their search for you: guards, noblemen and the like. That is where the stealth ended, and the Lions raised the alarm."

Sansa nods slowly, and then takes a deep breath, preparing herself for what's next.

"There will be more guards soon, it looks like you killed the majority the bulk of their army is away at Harrenhal, but the Lannisters will call for assistance from neighboring Houses. So, we have to move quickly."

The crowd of Links murmurs in confusion, looking at each other.

"What is it you want us to do, Lady Sansa?" Ingrid queries up at her from under her father's arm.

She smiles gently down at the child, and kneels to be level with her.

"We are going to take the city, little one."


End file.
